synecdoche

I pick it up, press it to my face, and breathe in its scent: a combination of grassy notes with a tang of acid and a hint of vanilla. Roses have nothing on it. That scent is a powerful thing. It takes me back to endless days and nights spent vicariously performing magic, battling dragons, defeating the forces of evil, and making the best friends of my life. Nights spent crying, and laughing, and sometimes even both at the same time. Nights spent without sleep because I just had to know a little bit more. When that scent fills my nostrils, I feel as though a fortress has been constructed around me to keep out all of the miseries of reality. It’s a wonder no one has bottled it as perfume.